


"Whumptober" 2018

by ficklescribbler



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Porthos is a saint, Whump, Whumptober 2018, a fair bit of action, an awful lot of angst, characters meeting for the first time, with some attempt at plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklescribbler/pseuds/ficklescribbler
Summary: A self-issued challenge to write (very) short stories for the "Whumptober" prompts. Please heed the warnings.[Random updates.]11. Serious illness - II10. Serious illness - I9. Friendly Fire8. Bedridden7. Stay6. Fever/Caregiver - II5. Fever/Caregiver - I. . .





	1. Stabbed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** this chapter includes **detailed descriptions of injury.**

* * *

The feel of the blade is nothing like he'd expect.

It is cold and hard and foreign within his flesh, an exceedingly uncomfortable pressure more than anything else. A major inconvenience, really. He's fine. Considering, it's nothing as bad as he'd have expected.

That is, until he begins to feel an odd pressure mounting in his head, as if two hands are pressing from both sides with steadily increasing force, and a heavy weight begins to descend upon his chest, gradually slowing his heart's wild beats. It is strange, but not painful; he's being sucked into a void that's whirling around the dagger buried hilt-deep, while a black fog begins to invade his vision from the edges, solidifying quickly and pushing him down. He's falling, and it is peaceful -

"d'Artagnan!"

A harsh slap jerks him awake and he opens his eyes with a gasp.

Hurried hands are patting him down, searching for injuries. Finding none,  _other than the obvious_ , they stop. A heat is beginning to gather on his skin around the blade; he reaches a hand to explore it, mindless like a curious child, but something stops him abruptly and pushes his hand back down. Finally, he looks up.

"Lie still."

"Athos?" Breathy and confused, he tries to focus.

"Yes. Stay still." The low, clipped tone is more grounding than the hand on his other shoulder. A whimper escapes him nevertheless, as if coming from someone else. Athos is doing things beside him, around him, upon him, but he's not following - until he speaks again, with a note of urgency this time.

"I am going to pull this out, and I am going to press down on the wound,  _hard_. It is going to hurt, but you won't bleed to death. Understood?"

" _Hm-_ "

"d'Artagnan,  _do_ you understand?" The urgency is compounded with worry now, and though he certainly does _not_  understand, d'Artagnan nods. The fingers on his shoulder contract briefly before disappearing and that trusted voice orders, "Brace yourself." But he's given no time before the material within him shifts and a cry rips free from his throat – a cry like never before - but the pain is  _so_  sharp,  _so sharp_ -

"Hang on now."

It is _moving._ It is _cutting,_   _sliding slick through muscle and sinew and his own flesh tightens around the blade, reluctant to let go. His heart is roaring like a wild drum beating to senseless bloodlust and there's something primal, violent and bloody and almost animal-like -_

"It's done. It's done," Athos breathes over him, half-relief, for himself, and half-soothing, for d'Artagnan. The Gascon's head lolls to the side as his eyes fall close.

_The pressure is still there._

As if in a dream he feels himself being moved, dragged until he's propped on something hard, easing the ache in his back and neck. Constant movement around him, assuring, calm and secure; the heat and the orange tint of a fire, and that presence near him,  _trusted_. Time is lost until he's being roused again.

Athos's hand on his cheek is kind, patting gently to bring him around. d'Artagnan opens his eyes and suddenly, like magic, everything is clear again, back in focus.

"There you are. Sit tight. I need to take care of that wound."

"How'b-" he winces, "how bad is it?"

"How badly does it hurt?"

"What does that have to do with it?" he mumbles.

"Not being Aramis, that is how you and I can gauge how bad a wound is," Athos muses. It sounds like he's being completely serious. d'Artagnan frowns, looking at him.

In the faint glimmer from the fire, there is a twitch on Athos's lips as he studiously keeps his head down, threading needle.

Puzzlement lasts for a moment, and d'Artagnan lowers his head back, and laughs.


	2. Bloody Hands

 

* * *

Porthos, unlike the majority of the men in his regiment, admired the King's Musketeers.

Not necessarily secretly, but not necessarily overtly either, he admired the newly-formed regiment of the 'most elite soldiers in France' - the accolade itself a prime reason for the mocking they received from the rest of the men. Ever since they'd arrived at the camp two weeks ago, they'd been at the receiving end of many a crude remark, many a cruel joke - though never openly or within their earshot. But going by the hostile glances exchanged whenever a Musketeer passed by an infantryman - that is, the hostile glance thrown by the infantryman returned guardedly, haughtily, indignantly or pompously, as, again, interpreted to be so by the said infantryman, none of those feelings were lost on the Musketeers.

 _Toy soldiers,_  the men nicknamed them. Lookin' all pretty in their shiny uniforms and plumed hats; such  _gentlemen_ , the lot of them. They looked right at home in the glittery halls and the manicured gardens of the Louvre, basking in the reflected light of the king and the queen. And sure, Parisians loved seeing them with their fancy blue cloaks and ornate swords at their belts as they accompanied the royals on parade, but that was exactly it: they belonged to Paris, to the capital of France, and to the world of the king and his place. They had no place on the battlefield. Within the mud and dust and chaos of the camp, they were too prim, too  _proper_ , clean and polished, like china dolls in a store window.

Some felt sorry for them.  _Poor sods_ , Maurice, their cook, lamented one day;  _come the day of fightin', they goin' t'be butchered like a herd of sheep._

Porthos, despite himself, worried -indeed, worried- that Maurice was right.

Campaigning, unbeknownst to be many, consisted, to a great extent, of marching and waiting. Many a soldier went on campaign only to return without ever seeing the battlefield, and of those who did, most never returned. So far, Porthos had been lucky enough to be one of the few in-between; he had marched and waited and fought, and lived to tell his stories. But he was young, and he was hungry for life, and he had a strange feeling at the pit of his belly that, here in the army, he was only getting started.

On these endlessly long, hot days, as they waited for weeks on end for orders to arrive or for stalemates to end, bored and restless, the men would spontaneously get in line to challenge Porthos to a brawl. It had become a game, one that Porthos enjoyed immensely: rarely did a man came along that could best him in a neat hand-to-hand, and it made for good entertainment, a good distraction for everyone. Sometimes even their lieutenant and captain would join the bets. Porthos loved winning, he loved his share from the bets, and he loved the praise. Oh, he  _loved_  the praise.

He loved the good things in life, those he'd grown up seeing and witnessing but never having.

Hence he was intrigued, almost allured by the Musketeers.

For as much as he was a fighter, Porthos was a Parisian; he appreciated an eye-pleasing sight in whatever form it came, just as he appreciated the apparent discipline of these men. He would sit with friends playing cards or needlessly polishing blades, and he would watch the Musketeers spar just beyond the narrow clearing 'separating' the two regiments' camps. The others scoffed at the thin rapiers the men used for blades, and laughed at their lunges and turns, but Porthos, untrained as he was in that noble art, watched them with interest, not unable to notice tactics or patterns the more he observed the men practice one-on-one. Sure, those bendy swords didn't look fit for the battleground, and surely those blue padded vests couldn't pass for armour, but for one, Porthos was intelligent enough to trust that if the king had a new regiment put together and sent to war, the men in it needed indeed to be the best, for their success or failure on the battleground would directly reflect upon the king. And surely they could not be so bad, nor so green, since they were headed by Monsieur de Tréville.

No one dared to speak badly of M. de Tréville.

Only the name itself inspired a quiet, but undeniable sense of respect among the infantrymen.

A known favourite of the king, it was said that M. de Tréville wasn't noble-born, nor was he a courtier. It was said he'd risen through the ranks, a soldier through and through, and that he'd had the honour of teaching the king sword-fighting in the monarch's not-so-distant youth. Then surely, Porthos thought, a regiment of Musketeers led by this man would consist of men who knew what they were doing. Surely, soon enough, when the fighting began, everyone would get their measure.

But Porthos never got the chance to observe them up close then.

Come the day of fighting, they learned that the Musketeers, divided into three groups, would be leading the charge, their part in the battle moving on and ending before Porthos's regiment ever caught up.

That morning, in the frenzy of preparations, Porthos did not spare them much thought.

Until, around the afternoon, in the heat of battle, he ran across the field and ducked behind cover to hide from an oncoming volley, and found himself pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with none other than Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the Musketeers.

He didn't have time to properly bask in that awe - the ground shook with a violent roar and Porthos instinctively ducked again, throwing an arm over his head with a startled cry. Dust and gravel rained down on them, showering them in dirt and dried mud. When it finally settled and Porthos brought down his arm, coughing and looking around, he saw the man beside him slumped against the rise, looking dazed under the blood pouring down his face.

"Oi – sir, you aligh'?"

He barely heard his own voice over the melee, and Tréville did not answer him, staring instead at something beside him on the ground. It was a body, lying face down. A blue sash wound above his hip, and a large, wet stain still spreading over it. Cursing aloud, Porthos whipped out a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it onto the bleeding gash on M. de Tréville's brow without ceremony, trying to see if the downed man was still alive. Tréville winced, but otherwise, did not react.

Neither did he raise a hand to hold the cloth. Porthos turned his attention back to the man.

"Hey – hey, look at me! Look at me – Monsieur de Tréville, right? What're you doin' 'ere – where are your men?  _Sir!_ "

But Tréville was still staring, though at something else this time, even as he blinked distractedly while Porthos held the kerchief to his brow. Porthos followed the blue gaze to see a bloodied sword, with a flat-blade and plain hilt. He turned his eyes back to Tréville and noticed only then that the man's hands, gloves shredded to pieces, were dripping with blood.

He cursed again. He couldn't fathom what had happened, but he needed to get Monsieur de Tréville out of here.

Trying to ignore the fact that he was practically manhandling the king's favourite, Porthos tied the kerchief around the unresisting man's head, then, apologizing under his breath, he turned to remove the sash from around the dead Musketeer's waist. He half-worried if Tréville would object to what he was doing, but there was no response at all from the man. Keeping his head below the ground and his ear trained on the goings-around, Porthos quickly cut strips from the relatively clean parts of the sash and wound them around Tréville's hands. Then, as soon as he caught a lull in the assault, he threw Tréville's arm over his shoulder and took his chance.

It was a dangerous climb and run, but soon enough, they were out of the battle zone, safely under the trees of the forest edging the camp on the other side.

M. de Tréville, worryingly pliant, walked with him easily enough.

But he did not speak.

Finally reaching the camp, breathless after the fight and the exertion, Porthos directly guided Tréville to the first empty tent that he found. He directed the man to sit on a stool just within the open flap, and grabbed the bottle he glimpsed lying on the floor, not believing his luck - sour as it was, it was wine.

He took a glorious sip, then turned to offer the bottle to Tréville, only to stop when he remembered about the man's hands.

Short of... feeding the man the wine... he couldn't make Tréville drink.  _Merde_ \- what an awkward position this was!

" _Monsieur_  Tréville. Come on, look at me. Lemme take care of these hands, Monsieur, hm?" He glimpsed at Tréville's face as he gently grasped the man's wrists, and was half-disappointed when he met no resistance. He turned the hands palms up. "Wait 'ere."

He scrambled to his feet and rushed about the camp to procure a basin of water. With the fight still going on, there were very few men milling about. When he returned to the tent, he was both relieved and somewhat anxious to find that the Captain had not moved. The bloodied hands remained open, propped on his knees just as Porthos had left them, while the blue eyes roamed slowly over the camp, although, finally,  _finally_ , with a flicker of awareness in them.

Just as Porthos approached, Tréville seemed to shake himself, took a deep breath and absently raised a hand to rub at his face.

"'ey- no –!"

But it was too late. Tréville dropped his hand with a violent flinch and a vicious curse, having left a smear of blood on his cheek. Hastily Porthos put down the basin and cloth in his hand, only to raise himself and find he didn't know what to do with his own hands. He stood awkwardly, towering over Tréville's sitting form.

The captain raised his head slowly, looked at Porthos with a frown, and asked, in a commanding tone, "Who are you?"

Porthos blinked. "Porthos. I.. pulled you from the trench. Remember?"

Tréville's eyes narrowed as he stared intently at him, and Porthos felt himself slightly fidgeting. After what felt like an eternity, Tréville released him.

"My apologies... Porthos," he said, hesitant, no doubt feeling the effect of that head wound, "I... seem to owe you my life...?" He looked at him questioningly, unsure.

"Nah, I've done nothin'," Porthos said. "Are you... well, sir? Anythin' I can do?"

Tréville frowned again as if he did not understand the question.

"That's a nasty wound on your head. An' your hands – they need tendin' to."

"My hands..." Tréville repeated slowly, lowering his gaze to contemplate the lacerated palms, or, perhaps, the remnants of the once-blue sash of the dead Musketeer. He remained like that for long moments, as if seeing things only visible to himself, until he shook himself with an effort and looked at Porthos again, this time, searchingly.

"Are you skilled at this?"

"What - sewin' wounds?" Surprised and horrified at the thought, Porthos shook his head vehemently. " _No._ I dig out a bullet or cauterize a cut alrigh', but with somethin' like this," he nodded towards the man's hands, "I wouldn' put my faith in me. Sir," he added as an afterthought, feeling awkward again.

Tréville considered this for a moment. "Very well. I thank you, Porthos, for all you have done today. Do me one last favour, if you would- find the Musketeer Aramis and ask him to come see me when he can. He must be here in the camp."

"Aye, sir." So  _polite_. _Do me a favour-- a_ _sk him to see me when he can_ \- Porthos could almost hear him say 'cordially invite' instead. Honestly, he'd never had any superior like M. de Tréville. He'd never had a proper _monsieur_  for a superior, for that matter. Captains and lieutenants he'd had, had been either too greedy or too full of themselves for their own good, and he'd served under generals he'd only heard of but never seen. With a nod, he half-turned to leave, but then hesitated. Tréville, with his hands in those haphazard strips and Porthos's stained kerchief around his head, looked pretty much... ruined.

"Are you...uh, you gonna be alrigh'? You're not gonna be able to 'old anythin' with those hands, or do much of anythin'." He worried momentarily if he'd overstepped a boundary by pointing out the obvious but Tréville, surprisingly, smiled - tightly, but sincerely.

"That is what Aramis is for."

"He's a medic?"

"No. But he has... nimble hands. Or so goes his reputation," he added, smile turning crooked. Porthos, serious, nodded.

"I'll find an' send 'im here-"

"Porthos.  _When he is able_."

Porthos knew an order when he heard one, and this was definitely an order. But Porthos had never been ordered  _politely_  before.

"Right," he mumbled, "When 'e is able. I, uh... I'll take me leave." And not giving himself more time to be more awkward around the man, he quickly left the tent, muttering 'bout actin' like a shy raw recruit, and went in search of the Musketeer Aramis, cordially invited to his captain's tent, whenever he was able to attend.

Two months later, after the hardest of the battles were fought and the tallies of the dead and injured filled rolls and rolls of parchment for the archives, the reputation of the Musketeers took a drastic, even dramatic turn for the better, word got out that Captain Tréville was looking to recruit men. And before that day was out, Porthos found himself personally summoned to the Captain's tent, to be offered a place in the King's most elite regiment.

He accepted without hesitation, like it was a loaf of bread up for grabs in the Court of Miracles.

He was now Porthos... of the King's Musketeers.

None dared to speak ill of them from that time onwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... until the Red Guard came along, that is.


	3. Insomnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some description of battle violence.

* * *

In the grand scheme of things, hundreds of years later when people look back on these days, they'll write them down as a pivotal point in the Franco-Spanish war.

Today, it is just hell on earth.

/

Athos is calm until the day wears itself out, until the battlefield has been searched; bodies, shot, mangled and blown apart, are pulled out and gathered, identified, written down and buried. He is calm until he's covered in so much dirt and grime, up to his knees and elbows, to his hair and toes, under his nails and in his ears, that it feels like even the blood in own his veins hasn't escaped. He is calm until he finds himself alone in his tent near midnight, his feet nailed to the ground from the soles of his boots, unable to move as if enclasped by thick, muscular arms from behind, temporarily numb.

He is vaguely aware that men are gathered outside. He does not know why - he hasn't seen that they have noticed his frame of mind.

There's a basin and a pitcher for him on the rickety desk. A struggling lantern hangs from a nail on the post, filling the tent with more darkness than light, throwing trembling shadows on the dismal furnishings. A worn-out sheepskin on the chair, a plain wooden trunk, a haphazard blanket and pillow on the cot.

A bottle of Bourgogne and a cup.

All these things, the basest necessities they may be, are made ready for him. That bothers him more than it should - more than it has - and now, standing there, Athos feels like a stranger in his own tent.

Normalcy is strange after a day in hell. The silence and the being alone.

He sets his jaw and forces himself to move, wrenching one leg from the clutch of that phantom force, and approaches the desk. Dips both hands into the full basin and watches them submerge, the water tepid and clean, smooth and soothing, but... it is _wrong._

 _Wrong,_  the water and its cleanliness _; wrong_ , that they have been prepared for him. He may be captain but this, now, makes him feel like a  _comte_  and that is wrong – he does not deserve any of this. Not on any given day but certainly not today – not today, when he has failed to protect his men, when he has led so many of them to their graves when he should have stood his ground and not given in to the general and that is an absurd thought but the weight of the day is coming down too hard to hang on to rationality's silken threads.

But his hands are clean now, of the blood that is not his and the mud and the grime. He watches them, steady, lift themselves out and dry themselves on a cloth.  _Twenty-four_.

That is the count.

The Musketeers that died today – the bodies and limbs they've just finished burying. There's a sack lying open just near the flap. It's filled with items gathered from the bodies of his men. There's a silver belt-buckle, and a gold-edged, decorated powder horn. A dozen swords with names inscribed on them, and rings: family heirlooms, wedding bands, treasured gifts. Crosses and gloves and weapons belts – items that once decorated Athos's brave men, now waiting to be sent to their loved ones.

What is left of the regiment is waiting outside. For what, Athos doesn't know because his words to them have already been said, spent as they'd stood by the graves of their brothers. They wait in vain, for Athos, tonight, will not go out.

When Porthos comes to check on him first and then d'Artagnan, he gathers his exhaustion and his wounds around him like a cloak and sends them away. The night is spent wide awake, and from that day on, the captain's sleepless nights begin.

/

It starts with the bags under his eyes. The morning after that terrible day, no one's surprised to see them – most of the men are supporting the same circles under their eyes. But by the fourth day, some of them already begin to speculate that the captain might be drinking again. Yet Athos is as clear-headed, as clipped and distant, and as sharp as he's always been. Sharp, in ways more than one, for somehow, strong emotion always seems to whet Athos like a blade. No one can put a finger on what is different when he's this way, but he is  _dangerous_  when he's charged.

Smart men as they are, they get on with their duties, keeping a respectful, if also wary, distance from the captain.

A week passes by, the lantern in the captain's tent lit up until sunrise every night, and the men, Porthos and d'Artagnan at the helm, begin to interrogate Dupond, the captain's young aide, on whether Athos is eating, sleeping, or getting any rest when he is closed up in that tent. For even to Porthos and d'Artagnan, Athos has his figurative doors closed. The two men know their third all too well - understand his woe all too well – to impose on him too much right now; Athos had objected to the assault plan on that day. He had been overruled. Not a single soul feels that Athos is to blame but, regardless of any unfounded feelings of guilt, the horror of that battle is already giving everyone nightmares. Athos is hardly the only one having trouble sleeping.

So they give him time and they give him space.

And they worry.

When over two weeks pass, Athos has visibly lost weight and his drawn features have already become a permanent fixture, they can remain silent no more.

/

In the morning, Porthos walks by the young aide on his way to the smithy's workshop, and when he returns the same way five minutes later, Dupond seems to be having his second plate of breakfast. This draws Porthos's attention. He stops, frowning, and that's more than enough for Dupond to gulp and guiltily leave the plate aside and stand up.

"It's the captain's," he explains uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I just went in to bring it to him but he said he won't have it and said that I could."

Porthos scrutinizes the lad for a long moment, then releases him. He has no doubt that Dupond is telling the truth. Instead, he turns dark, concerned eyes towards the command tent. The time for intervention is approaching.

In the afternoon, it is d'Artagnan who goes into the tent and finds Athos's mid-day meal untouched. But unexpectedly, Athos cannot remain unmoved by the naked despair in his friend's eyes, and he takes the first step, quietly admitting to d'Artagnan that he cannot sleep.

And that he cannot  _drink_  himself to sleep.

The touch of lament in that sacred confession breaks d'Artagnan's heart.

"How can I help?" he asks, simple and sincere. Athos sighs and closes the book in his hand, and offers him a tired half-smile.

"I do not believe it can be helped."

"Did you ask Establet? Perhaps he can give you something - "

"I have. The result was... less than desirable."

He doesn't say that the only thing Establet's potion did is to remind him needlessly of Aramis. A deep sense of longing fills Athos now as he remembers their missing friend again. Aramis with his kindness and his wit and warmth. He sighs again. Putting down the book, he rubs his forehead - the last thing he can deal with is another added layer of loss. A headache is mounting yet again, as they, too, have become a fixture these days.

"You can't go on like this, Athos," d'Artagnan states, concern bleeding through, "You're going to make yourself ill -"

"I am not making myself anything, I assure you," Athos intercepts, raising his head slowly to look at d'Artagnan. Exhaustion is taking its toll on him. He's taken exception at the suggestion that he's deliberately harming himself.

"Athos, you are not eating properly - " d'Artagnan re-starts, not at all accusatory but-

"Not by my own choice," comes the stiff reply.

"Well, are you trying hard enough?!" The question simply bursts. The moment he speaks, d'Artagnan realizes just how utterly petulant that sounds, but backing down isn't in his nature so he stands his ground and waits.

Athos stares at him for the longest moment, his face unmoving, and when he speaks, his voice is even and lordly.

"I thank you for your concern. But if you will excuse me, I have matters that I must attend."

"Athos – "

"That will be all."

The subject is closed; the Gascon, left out.

He leaves, frustrated, but wows that this is not the end of it - he will try again.

Athos  _cannot_  shut him out.

/

"Will you not rest?" he asks, kindly, at another time.

"I cannot."

"Then I'll keep you company."

Athos turns his head just until he can see him with the corner of his eye.

"I thank you. But I do not require company this night."

"Why not?"

"Because  _I_  am not good company tonight. Go to sleep, d'Artagnan. You'll be needed alert and ready tomorrow." And he turns his back, the dark leather stretched over his frame glinting red in the firelight.

A mountain of will, daring d'Artagnan to climb.

But Athos has only ever been the one mountain he cannot scale. With immense sadness in his heart, d'Artagnan rises and retreats for the night.

But even though he doesn't know it yet, he has, in fact, successfully worn Athos out. For the reaction the next time is an angry hiss and an unbecoming slap on the tent's flap when he walks in to find Porthos in his tent.

"What is this," he spits, "are you taking turns?"

"What did you expect?" Porthos asks, not a trace of humour or lightness in his voice – the question is brutally blunt.

"Leave me be, Porthos." He stalks past the bigger man to walk towards the desk.

"Leave you to  _what?_ " Porthos asks, following,  _"_ Spend another night strollin' 'round the camp like a ghost – continue workin' yourself to your grave? The men are worried 'bout you, Athos –  _we_  are worried. You 'aven't been yourself since Breisach."

Athos huffs a short, impatient breath, and speaks over his shoulder, his voice lordlier and mightier than ever.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to pick yerself up," Portos puts forcefully. "The man I'm lookin' at, that ain't the Athos I know. You're not eatin', you're not sleepin' – hell -  _when_  did you last sleep?"

"When I was able," Athos grinds out, the words enunciated as if talking to a retard. He turns around to look at Porthos squarely in the eye.

"I appreciate the concern. But I do not appreciate the implication from both you and d'Artagnan that I am deliberately negligent in my health. Because I assure you, I am not. I  _cannot_  sleep."

The unexpected frankness, framed within that rebuke as it is, softens Porthos considerably. He shakes his head.

"That ain' what's botherin' us, brother. It is that you won' open up. This can hardly be the first time you're losin' sleep an' I get it, Athos - I get that with not drinkin' an' all maybe you're findin' copin' hard -" he pauses, regarding the man determinedly staring below at the ground, jaw tight-set, "but if there's one way I know that's gonna solve this, it is to  _talk_."

But when did Athos ever  _talk_?

Predictably, he keeps silent.

"What is it that you need hearin'?" Porthos presses. "That what happened in Breisach wasn't your fault? It  _wasn't._ You warned the general and the Marquis that it would 'ave been a slaughter; it's not your fault they didn' listen - "

"Yet I could have refused to follow their orders. I could have refused to lead  _twenty-four_  of my men to their graves. What, tell me, will exonerate me from that?"

Porthos blinks, then nods heavily. There is the source of the conflict, of the sleepless nights.

"You already know the answer to that," he says.

"Yet it is not satisfactory, Porthos. Not this time. I could have  _refused_."

"An' you'd be court-martialled and possibly stripped of your commission - where would that leave  _us_? With Duval as the cap'n?" Porthos snorts.

"I am not worth the lives of twenty-four men."

"Now that is some warped thinkin', Athos, you gotta know that."

"Do I?" Athos asks, almost,  _almost_  sarcastically, but Porthos ignores it, shaking his head again.

"I see now why you didn't want to accept Tréville's offer in the first place. Is this what you feared would 'appen? That you'd try to remove yourself from responsibility the moment it became too much?"

The words have all the subtlety of a battering ham. And they immediately produce the desired effect: Athos fingers begin to clench at the sides.

"Careful, Porthos."

"Why? Tell me I'm wrong. No?" He chuckles humourlessly. "I'm gettin' a really strange sense of  _deja-vu_ , Athos – I'm really hoping you prove me wrong again but right now, I gotta say it, my friend, what you're doin' is plain cowardly."

Athos  _seethes_. But he does not break.

Porthos does.

Crossing the space in two strides he grabs Athos by the arms, shaking him roughly. "Enough of this," he growls, their faces inches apart, "Athos -  _enough of this!_ "

"Unhand me," says Athos coldly.

"No." The fingers dig even deeper into Athos's arms, bruising the flesh. " _No -_  not until you pull your head together and start actin' like yourself again."

But he doesn't expect Athos to tense, brace himself and suddenly shove him across the chest –  _hard -_ and he stumbles back, wincing as his legs hit the edge of the wooden trunk behind.

As he's pushing himself up, a grin begins to stretch over Porthos's lips. A predatory glint in his eyes, either possessed by the devil or struck by divine inspiration, he crouches, and he lunges.

Then it is a proper, no-holds-barred fist-fight.

/

In the end, after d'Artagnan has run in at some point to break them apart and received a punch across the jaw for his trouble; the men are gathered outside just as they did two weeks ago, worrying about what's going on; all three Musketeers are sitting on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, lips split and noses bleeding, knuckles bruised and breathing hard.

Sandwiched between Porthos and d'Artagnan, Athos is trembling from head to toe.

He draws both legs up, wraps his arms around them and bows his head until his forehead touches his knees. As the tremors ease and he slowly begins to tip sideways, Porthos puts an arm around him and pulls him gently to himself.

In the morning, when he wakes up stiff and aching and huddled under a blanket that hadn't been there, he finds Athos still deeply asleep, slumped heavily against his chest.

He gathers him close, shuts his eyes and says one of Aramis's prayers of thanks.


	4. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be cheating a lot in "Whumptober". Writing prompts out of order is one way; combining them as I see fit is another. Skipping "No, don't!" for now, this is for "Poison."

* * *

It was hot.

It was very, seriously, damningly hot. And it wasn't even noon yet.

d'Artagnan, straight as a street lantern, blinked as a drop of perspiration managed to climb the mound of his brow and slide down into his left eye. Porthos stood as if the heat had dried him and turned him into a sculpture made of clay. Aramis might be slightly swaying like an aspen tree. Athos had taken off his gloves. It was  _hot_.

The king and the queen stopped long enough before them to offer a downward twist of the lips and a sympathetic glance, respectively, before moving on.

To their utter amazement, five minutes later, when the Royals and the courtiers had disappeared inside and Athos caught Tréville's eye across the lawn, the captain gave a grave nod to indicate they were relieved of duty, and almost momentarily, a servant approached them with a silver tray in his hand, a decanter and four cups expertly balanced.

Athos raised an eyebrow at the man.

"Her Majesty's orders," the servant explained briefly.

"Bless her," Porthos muttered, immediately reaching for the decanter; d'Artagnan's shoulders sagged, raising a mildly-shaking hand to wipe his brow, and Aramis, propping himself against the nearby table, smiled so disproportionately warm and glowingly that Athos had to throw him a sharp glare.

The wine was cool and refreshing, and the Musketeers' love and respect for their queen, if possible, grew. Soon, Captain Tréville had marched across the lawn to join them, and his first words, accompanied by a tough look at d'Artagnan, were directed at Aramis.

"I am assuming d'Artagnan here has yet to acquaint himself with the fine hat-makers of Paris," he said in displeasure. "Take him to Saint-Germain, make sure he buys a hat? Only fools go around bare-headed in this heat, let alone stand guard. Athos, Porthos," he turned to his other men, "you're coming to the garrison with me. We must set up the guard detail for the banquet this afternoon."

"Do I really have to?" d'Artagnan muttered as soon as the captain and the others were out of earshot. Fanning himself with his own hat, Aramis looked at him amusedly.

"We do as we are told,  _mon ami_ , unless you prefer facing the captain's wrath. I, for one, certainly do not. Come," he said, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the back of his neck, "I know the best place we can get you a hat." He grinned as they began to walk. "It's been a while since I last paid a visit to Madame Thévénot's."

d'Artagnan sighed,resigned to his fate, and fell into step with him, on his way to buying his first hat.

* * *

Not one hour later, he was slumped against the shade of a wall in a deserted back alley, trying not to fall.

One shoulder pressed into the hard, blessedly cool masonry, d'Artagnan scrunched his eyes against the pounding in his head, doing his best to simply stand upright, willing his legs to not fail him now. The air he breathed felt like a dry, almost solid vapour, if such a thing were possible; he could feel it clotting and piling up inside his lungs, and he feared if he breathed like this any longer, his chest would fill up and he would have no more space in his ribcage to draw any more breath. Aramis's weight on his other shoulder was pulling him down, threatening to sap the last of his own strength - but he could not go on now; he needed rest. Just a few moments of rest and then he would...

The jagged surface of the wall chafed hard against his skin and his eyes flew open, something between a silent sob and a whimper escaping him. Immensely glad that there was no one around to witness that, he forced himself upright once again; adjusted Aramis's arm on his shoulder, securing his hold on the man's waist, and pushed himself off.

_They had to get to the garrison._

_He_  had to get to the garrison.

He wasn't sure if Aramis was breathing anymore.

* * *

"Captain!"

"What is it?" Tréville snapped as he turned sharply to look out of the window. The Musketeer Boutin, on guard duty at the gate, braced himself on the sill and poked his head inside.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan - they've taken ill as well!"

"Where are they?"

"Here - the men are bringing them in." Boutin looked over his shoulder in the courtyard to affirm that indeed, both men, just at the verge of consciousness, were being helped into the infirmary.

"Dear God," Tréville muttered, rubbing a hand down his face before marching towards the infirmary door to greet them, "this is no coincidence!" Athos and Porthos were already in beds, being presided over by Dr. Lemay.

"D'Artagnan," Tréville breathed, seeing that he was the more aware of his two men and immediately taking his arm, "what has happened?"

"I don't... know," the Gascon panted, unable to draw in enough air or see straight, so badly was his head aching. "We had... just bought the hat.. the heat.. it's -"

"Alright, don't worry yourself," Tréville cut him off, leading him to the nearest bed. "Dr. Lemay is here. You'll be fine."

He proceeded to remove the man's doublet even as Boutin helped him to sit up on the bed. d'Artganan, pliant and sweating heavily, feebly gestured towards the general direction of the room.

"Aramis..."

"He's being looked after. Lie back. Lemay?"

"Divest him of his garments, Captain, and give him water. It appears that they are suffering from the same thing that ails your other two men. Cold water and more cloths," he instructed at the other Musketeer helping him with Aramis.

"And you still have no idea what it is?"

"As I have said, heat exhaustion would be my first thought, but I do not believe that is what we're facing here. It is too much of a coincidence that all four of them have begun displaying the same symptoms at the same time. Our priority," he said, laying a hand on Aramis's brow and frowning, "is to bring their body temperatures down. In this heat, that presents the biggest danger." He walked over to take the basin provided by the Musketeer Laurent with a nod of thanks.

d'Artagnan, whose eyes had fallen close, opened them, and listlessly turned his head on the pillow, his gaze wandering until it stopped on the bed opposite his own.

"Is that... who is-"

"It is Athos," Tréville supplied, laying a wet cloth over the Gascon's wrist, "they, too, have fallen ill soon after we returned from the palace. Easy, lad," he pressed on d'Artagnan's shoulder when he instinctively moved as if to get up. "This makes no sense," the captain muttered under his breath, taking another cloth to lay it on d'Artagnan's brow.

"You're thinking... the wine- aargh!" With a sharp groan d'Artagnan sat up and doubled over, one hand flying to his chest, his breathing turning erratic. Lemay immediately scrambled over, sneaking his hand to lay it over d'Artagnan's heart and waiting for a few moments, listening. Then he put his other hand on d'Artagnan's back and gently began to push him once more on his back. Alarmed, Tréville aided him from the other side, waiting for instruction. d'Artagnan's eyes were wide. Lemay leaned over him, his hand still on the Gascon's chest.

"D'Artagnan, I need you to listen to me. You must control your breathing; your heart is beating too fast. You must take slow, long breaths. Follow my example." Shifting his hand to grab d'Artagnan's wrist and keep his fingers on the pulse, he guided the frightened Gascon to calm down his breathing.

_The wine..._

Could it be the wine?

"What's... goin' on there?"

The captain looked up to see Porthos looking groggily around, face pinched in discomfort.

"It's Aramis and d'Artagnan. They, too, are ailing, Porthos."

"Wha'?"

Like d'Artagnan, Porthos too moved as if to get up, but he, too, failed, groaning as he fell back. His hand flew to his forehead and Tréville could see even from the distance that he was swallowing profusely to keep sickness down.

"Please stay in bed, Porthos," Doctor Lemay called over, "You are all reacting to something I am beginning to suspect more and more that is poison. Without a sample of the original substance, I cannot hazard a guess as to what it is, so we must try to counter these symptoms as swiftly as we can. I'll need your full cooperation on this. I trust you will comply?"

Porthos brought his hand down and looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. You c'n count on me."

"Very good." Looking down, he was satisfied with d'Artagnan's progress. "Please stay with him, Captain." Then he moved quickly back to Aramis's side.

"The wine..."

This time it was Athos who spoke, his voice a hoarse, painful whisper. Unlike Aramis, who already supported the dangerous flush of fever on his cheeks, Athos was as pale as a sheet, and when he spoke, it was apparent that he had difficulty taking in full breaths.

"All four of us," he continued as Tréville approached and drew the cover up over his shoulders when he saw his lieutenant shivering, the blue eyes nevertheless insistent, "the banquet... they took.. us out."

Tréville nodded, having reached the same conclusion. "I'll double the guard and let the king know what has happened. Rest, Athos." He pressed a hand on his lieutenant's shoulder, and helped him to some water before walking over to check on Aramis.

Lemay had already laid a cloth upon the marksman's brow, and like d'Artagnan, Aramis seemed to be breathing very fast and very shallowly, although his eyes were resolutely closed. Lemay appeared concerned.

"I fear a seizure if we do not bring his temperature down quickly. He is burning fiercely."

"What do you need?"

"Nothing more than what we already have here," Lemay returned, calm and professional despite the deep crease on his brow. He picked a vial from his large kit and put a few drops into a cup of wine. He looked up at Tréville before bending over to help Aramis with the medicine. "If there is somewhere you need to be, Captain, I am well-equipped here. Be assured, I will do everything in my power to help your men."

Tréville nodded, grateful for Lemay's calmness in the face of this crisis. But he was not naive. Looking around the room to take in each of his men - d'Artagnan still slightly panting with one hand on his chest; Athos turned on his side and clutching at the covers as he shivered fiercely; Porthos sat up on the bed with his head bowed low and arms folded around his stomach - he feared, deeply, that if Lemay could not identify the poison, then he could not cure what it was doing to his men.

The captain was frightened, although not a single hair, nor any crease on his brow betrayed it. But if he would allow himself one small breach of sentimentality, he would pull his captaincy around him and order his Inseparables to not even think about dying when he was gone.

 _Les Inseparables._  It suddenly occurred to Tréville, as if whispered in his ear by a malevolent spirit from afar, that if one of them died, the others would follow him just so he wouldn't be alone.

But what a ridiculous thought that was, and how unlike Tréville! He firmly shook himself. This was no time for sentimentality.

Someone had poisoned his men -  _the best of his men_. Someone clearly intended to make a move against the king or the queen. Or someone attending the banquet this afternoon as a guest. There was no time to lose.

Making sure that Lemay had everything he needed and ordering Boutin and Laurent to assist him in whatever he may need, the captain stalked out into the courtyard, ordered Jacques to bring his horse and rode hard to the Louvre.

* * *

"Good God, Tréville - who could have done that?! Are you saying someone just walked into the palace kitchens, disguised himself as a servant and poisoned my Musketeers? What if it was me or the queen they poisoned?! What kind of security are you calling this?!"

Perhaps, this once, the king actually had a point there, Tréville acceded. He stood silent and still, waiting for the storm to pass, and only too thankful that the snake, Rochefort, at least, was nowhere in sight.

Not that it mattered. The moment he heard of it, he'd take full advantage of it -  _the rat._

After pacing up and down two more times, Louis stopped, glaring daggers at the captain.

"How will this culprit be caught? Am I safe in my own palace, Tréville? Is it safe for me to hold a banquet in my own garden, without having to worry about myself or my queen getting killed?"

"The only people who can identify the culprit are my men, sire, who, at the moment, are fighting for their lives. I have doubled the security for the banquet, and all food and drink to be served will be tested twice. However..."

"What?" the king asked grouchily, crossing his arms.

"I would still recommend your majesty to postpone the engagement until those responsible are caught."

Louis's face hardened. "Out of the question," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "No. I will not hide. Find Rochefort and ask him to supply your Musketeers with the Red Guard. If any of my guests so much as sneezes wrong, Tréville, I will hold you responsible." Fear danced in his eyes behind the mask of anger. "You are dismissed."

The captain bowed and turned sharply on his heel, leaving the hall in long, furious strides.

He understood Louis. He understood his fear. He admitted that, indeed, it could very well have been the king or the queen who had been poisoned, but the fact remained that Musketeers were responsible for the safety of the king and the queen - not that of the palace. Musketeers did not stand guard at the Louvre's numerous gates, or inspect the kitchens or servants' quarters. Musketeers were the last circle of defence.

Out of all days, this day, when the best of his men -  _His_  Musketeers when there was something to be proud, Tréville's Musketeers if otherwise - had been targeted, the captain really could have done with a touch of understanding. One glance of sympathy, one small question after the men's well-being. But that was unreasonable.

This was Louis. In all fairness; understanding and sympathy, Tréville knew, would come later, after the fear and the anger passed.

Clamping down hard on his emotions and steeling himself, he walked past the guards before Rochefort's apartments without so much as slowing his stride, and entered unannounced, mildly satisfied when Rochefort looked up in irritation, not bothering to dignify the man's snarky remark with a reply. The sooner he could get over with this day, the sooner he could get back.

As he began to relay to Rochefort all that had passed, he only prayed that he would not return to the garrison to find that he had seen the last of his men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on for part two, making use of the prompt "fever".


	5. Fever / Caregiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be for 'fever', continuing on from 'poison'. It still is, only it merged with another prompt, 'caregiver', which is good because this story just grew a third head. So take this one -and the next- as you please for those two prompts.  
> (And sorry for my generally awful editing - I am a hopeless case.)

* * *

The deeper hours of the night found Captain Tréville in the garrison infirmary, working diligently to keep his men alive.

Dunk the cloth in water, wring, apply on forehead.  _Hush_. Move. Take cloth. Rinse, wring, re-apply.  _Easy. D'Artagnan - come on, son. Easy now._  Move. How is he?

A shake of the head. Push hair back, feel the brow. Burning. Burning - all of them - they are  _burning_  and it feels like there's a limit, an invisible line, one that shouldn't be crossed and it's a race to keep this raging fever below that line and it has fully consumed Tréville; this mad rush, this desperate toiling. He's lost track of time, aware only of his wet hands and hot, clammy skin under his touch.

_Keep fighting, Aramis._

_Keep fighting._

Athos's erratic breathing has him frightfully glance in his lieutenant's direction every few moments.

Porthos, at the opposite end, is breathing so heavily and labourously that it's as if his chest is being crushed under a pile of rocks.

_Fight._

_All of you. I_   _order you to fight._

"Captain."

He looked up to find a hand on his arm and the Musketeer Boutin watching him with worried eyes.

"I've brought in some stew. Take a break for a moment, sir. I'll take over."

"What's the time?" Tréville asked.

"Nearing two o'clock. Take a break, Captain," Boutin repeated, eyes dark, "You need it."

He was right. Yet Tréville could not leave - not when his Inseperables were in this state. Wiping his hands on a towel left on the nightstand, he looked up to glance around the infirmary, taking it in as if seeing it for the first time.

The room glowed bright with the light of dozens of candles scattered around. The air weaving in and out of the room, blessedly light in sharp contrast to the heat of the day, was playfully teasing the flames, dancing with the ghosting shadows on the walls. The quiet sounds of a subdued crowd filtered in from the courtyard - most of the men were awake, awaiting news of their friends and comrades. The captain felt as if it had been not hours, but days.

"Captain?"

Instead of looking at Boutin, he looked down at Aramis's face, and made up his mind.

"I'll stay. Thank you, Boutin." He reached again for the cloth he'd left in the water, and wrung it to wipe Aramis's brow.

He would not leave.

Not until each one of them awoke.

* * *

"Father..."

"Easy, lad. Your father's not here."

"No - he died. He died - they killed him, Captain - "

"For God's sake, Lemay - he's shivering like a leaf! Easy, d'Artagnan -"

"Four drops of the concoction in half a glass of water, Captain; like the last time. It is time for another dose."

"Are you certain this concoction of yours is doing  _anything_  to bring their fevers down?!"

"I am certain. If you would please?"

Once the crisis is over, the captain would recall the utter professionalism Lemay possessed with much gratitude and not a little amount of respect.

"Captain."

"Laurent?"

"It is Athos, sir - he's not doing so good."

He hurried to his lieutenant's side, the Musketeer Laurent retreating to d'Artagnan's in his place. Athos was breathing in such rapid, shallow pants, it was a wonder any air found its way into his lungs. Restless fingers twitched upon the sheets as the captain leaned over him; his lieutenant was murmuring, but no words could be made out.

"Athos?"

_Fevered dreams._

God knew what haunted him now - his brother? his wife? Now he seemed to be pleading, whispering broken  _please_ 's to ghosts from his past; now he seemed angry, trying to launch himself from the bed and Tréville had to hold him down.  _Quick_  - a new bucket of water. Cool cloth on the brow, on the wrists, on the chest. Make him drink. Give him the drugged wine. No - this isn't working - this isn't enough.

Crisis upon crisis: three beds down, Lemay let out a half-surprised, half-frustrated cry before shouting for Laurent and throwing himself over Aramis, who had begun to twitch uncontrollably on the bed.  _I fear a seizure if we do not bring his temperature down._  Failure, as Captain Tréville watched in horror from where he was leaning over at the foot of the bed, pressing down one horribly shaking leg.  _Dear God - Dear God_  - _Aramis -_

The fit eased after what felt like a lifetime, and stillness came like settling mud after a flood.

Stunned, the captain stepped back from the bed to allow room for Lemay, who had immediately begun taking care of his patient.

Without realizing it, he walked out, finding himself miraculously outside, in the courtyard.

He took a deep breath. _Two breaths. Three – Good God –_

"Captain?"

He opened his eyes.

Musketeers were looking at him with anxious faces, waiting for him to speak, worried if he was about to announce a death.

"They are fighting," he announced, brisk and loud enough. Just the act of addressing his men straightened the captain's sagged shoulders back again. He turned to the nearest men. "Duval, Berger - I need you to go to the palace. We need ice. Doctor Lemay is having trouble keeping their fevers down. Bring as much as you can - do  _not_  return without it. I will deal with the accounting once this is over."

With sharp nods, the two Musketeers turned on their heels and were gone.

"Anything we can do, Captain?"

_Pray. Pray for them._

The captain shook his head and returned inside.

* * *

 _There she was. Glowing. Not the shimmering cloth of her dress, nor the invaluable pieces of_ _jewellery_ _adorning her hands, her ears, her neck - no, she was glowing; irresistible. He took one step towards her. Her countenance changed, _ _her_ _features hardening into a deep frown._

_"Who are you?" she asked, a note of fear sharpening her tone, "What is this man doing here? Guards?"_

_"It_ _is_ _I, your majesty -"_

 _"Guards!" she called again, angry, "How dare you_ _come_ _into my apartments like this?"_

_"Majesty -"_

_Hands descended on his shoulders. A moment of surprise arrested him, then he tried to shake them off, struggling to free himself from their restraint - what was this? Who did these men think they were - they had no right. No right to stop him; he was a King's Musketeer, he was - he was Aramis. He told them so - threatened to cut off their arms if they didn't let go but they didn't budge. He couldn't move. Fury slowly gave way to fear: the more he couldn't move, the more frantic he _ _became_ _; darkness had begun to close in from all sides and his heart began to thump!-thump!-thump_ _!,_ _louder and louder as he watched her walk away, spitting curses at the phantom hands. She was walking away. She was fading into the distance but he had to talk to her, reach her before she disappeared completely -_

_"Your majesty!"_

_But no; down, down, down he was sinking, succumbing to_ _a void_ _sucking him in with greed. A black despair began to pour itself into his heart, choking, drowning, weighing him down until one sharp cry pierced the darkness, and his soul, like a fired musket ball._

_The wailing cry of a child._

_The baby he'd seen only twice._

_He opened his mouth to scream; scream until there was no air in his lungs but there was no sound, and he fell, fell..._

_...until there was nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I barely realized that I'd switched in and out of the present tense until I read this back, but liked it as it is and decided not to fix it. I hope it wasn't distracting.  
> Also - drop a word, if you like. Authors adore comments and interacting with their readers. I speak for *all* of them.


	6. Fever/Caregiver II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "poison" prompt turned out to be the gift that kept giving. There will be another chapter to this story, for the prompt "stay". It will be the last one.

* * *

It was a relief.

It was a much-needed wave of relief to have his lieutenant finally awake and to be helping him sit up a little in the bed. Sapped of his strength by the poison coursing through his veins, Athos accepted the water the captain helped him to with quiet gratitude.

"What... happened?" he asked, settling exhaustedly on the pillows.

"Do you not remember?"

"The wine..." Athos's brow creased as he thought, "Poisoned... The king?"

"Safe. Worry not." It was a long story. A long and unsatisfactory one and it could wait; this was not the time to relay it. Athos was silent for a few moments, and Tréville knew what question was coming moments before he spoke again.

"The others - are they-?"

"Alive, Athos,"  _thank God._   "You've given us some cause for worry, I'll admit that. But by the grace of God, Porthos's fever broke yesterday, and you and d'Artagnan," he nodded towards the bed across from them, "turned the corner this morning, just after dawn. This is the third day, by the way."

 _Oh,_  seemed to be Athos's thought on that, as his eyes lingered for a few moments on d'Artagnan's bed, where the Gascon lay still in deep slumber. Then his gaze travelled two beds down, to the corner of the room.

"Aramis?"

The unrelenting claws of fear tightened once again on the captain's momentarily relieved heart.

"Fighting."

"It is bad," said Athos, the words more of a statement than a question as he stared intently at the captain. Seeming to read everything Tréville didn't say from his face, he appeared resigned, and began to push back the cover over him in order to sit up. The captain shook his head.

"Athos..."

"Captain."

 _No,_ _there is no need for you to get up;_   _you're still weak and there is nothing you can do for Aramis anyway._

 _Do not deny me this,_ _I need to see them; I am sufficiently well._  In the end, the captain did not object when Athos managed to sit up, even though it left him trembling with weakness, and with a resigned sigh, he got up to take Athos's arm to help him to his feet.

"Where is Porthos?" Athos inquired as they walked the few steps.

"He's stepped out to refresh himself. He should return shortly."

The air was hot and humid as it had been for days. Athos was bare-feet; the flagstones cool, but filthy. Once they reached d'Artagnan's bed, Athos stood over his young friend and observed him quietly for long moments. Taking support from the wall, he reached one hand to lay it tenderly upon the Gascon's head, and let it rest for a while. Then he straightened and started towards Aramis's bed.

It was then that the infirmary door opened and Porthos entered, stopping short when he saw Athos up and about.

Crossing the room in quick strides he pulled Athos to himself, kissing him on the side of the head, to which Athos responded with a one-armed hug. Wordlessly, Porthos replaced Tréville to help him to Aramis, and they sat.

Aramis looked terrible.

How a man could look both pale and flushed at the same time Athos did not know, but there Aramis was, his normally healthy complexion faded to a dull almost-grey, his closed eyes roving under the cloth on his brow. He was breathing with the desperation of a man whose heart was about to burst, and his chest rose and fell rapidly under the thin shirt. Out of his own accord, Athos's hand reached to grip the marksman's restless fingers, clasping them in his palm.  _Three days_. He'd been in this state forthree days.

Athos slowly turned towards Tréville.

"Lemay... Doctor Lemay was here." Again, half a statement, half-question.

"Yes, he was."

"What is his prognosis? Why is Aramis still...like this?" And by God, Tréville could see the fear lurking under the tranquil surface. With yet another sigh, he lowered himself on the empty cot across from them, feeling the exhaustion deep in his bones.

"Gentlemen...," he began, looking from one of his men to the other, "Doctor Lemay says the poison they used would have affected each of you in varying degrees. You all drank from the same decanter, the same amount. Whatever it was, Porthos's metabolism fought it off easier than the rest of you. Aramis..." his eyes strayed towards his ailing man, "...is simply taking longer."

"But he will recover," Athos pressed, unsure.

"'course he will," Porthos intercepted in a quiet growl before the captain could respond, but Athos held Tréville's gaze, awaiting his answer. Tréville did not look away.

"Lemay is confident."

But just as he could read Athos, so the lieutenant could read the captain, and like Tréville, Athos had the grace to see but not probe. For despite Doctor Lemay's assurances, the captain still feared for Aramis's life.

* * *

_The door burst open and the Musketeers Duval and Berger entered, each of them carrying two wooden crates under each arm. Tréville rose from Porthos's bedside to rush towards them, Doctor Lemay momentarily stopped over his patient, watching with a frown._

_"You've brought it?"_

_"Wasn't a problem. There's more outside."_

_"Captain?"_

_"I have ordered ice to be brought. I didn't ask your opinion, Monsieur, but I did not think you would object."_

_"On the contrary - that is very well-thought," said Lemay, walking quickly over to take a large block of ice from one box. He laid it on a large piece of cloth, wrapped it and carried it over to Aramis, who, after the fit, lay still, his limbs twitching slightly every now and then. "We'll need more_ _cloths_ _to wrap the ice."_

_More wet hands for next half-hour, sharp reactions to the applied ice when the cold contacted his Musketeers' burning skins. Time passed. The light changed, more people entered and left the room. There were more fevered dreams. Open, unseeing eyes, re-lived nightmares and galloping hearts. The smell of sweat in the cloying air, despite the open windows.  Murmurs, occasional outbursts, nonsensical ramblings. The captain began to feel lightheaded; sick. He found himself staring at Aramis's face at some point, seeing it still, the struggling breast quietened._

_Death, snuck_ _up on_ _them while they'd toiled._

_Life, like sand between his fingers, had slipped away._

_He'd never even noticed._ Aramis was gone.

_But a quiet murmur pulled him out of that horrifying vision, and reality crystallized once again before his eyes: Aramis, very much alive, was pleading desperately, tossing his head from side to side._

_"...majesty... Your_ _majesty_ _, I beg you..."_

_Frowning, the captain wondered at Aramis's confused worry._

_"Let me see him... Let me see him, please.."_

_"Hush," Tréville said softly, grasping his man’s arm, "your brothers are safe. They are here, with you."_

_"Let me see him..."_

_What_ _kind_ _of twisted nightmare was haunting him now? Who did he plead to see; why was he begging the king?_

_What kind of impossible scenario played in his head, only God knew._

_"Easy, my friend. It's only a dream. Don't distress yourself so."_

_He wet the cloth and laid it on Aramis's forehead, then grabbed the man's hand, and prayed._

_* * *_

Late in the afternoon Porthos's fever had broken, and in the early hours of the evening he'd awakened, one-fourth of the weight crushing the captain's heart finally disappearing. Worry for his three friends had kept Porthos awake longer than he'd normally remain, but after a check-over by Doctor Lemay and half a forced bowl of soup, he'd fallen into a deep, healing sleep, to wake up much recovered in the morning.

Around daybreak, Lemay had announced that Athos had left the worst behind, followed shortly by d'Artagnan.  

Nearing noon now on the third day, Aramis alone still burned.

And as long as he did, Tréville knew, this nightmare would continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos is about twenty-five years ahead of his time in this chapter, as according to Merriam-Webster, the term 'prognosis' was first used in 1655. Tréville, on the other hand, is way ahead of his lieutenant, as 'metabolism' is as young a babe as having been born in 1878.  
> 


	7. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I proved with this Whumptober “challenge” is that I would make a very poor Musketeer indeed. Here is “stay”, the concluding chapter of the poison plot. It was a bit of a nightmare to write, if you’ll excuse the pun.

* * *

_Movement._

_Presences nearby._

_Quiet conversation._

Aramis opened his eyes.

The scrape of a chair and the rustling of clothes as people came over to his side, and he blinked heavily to clear his shifting vision. Porthos was looming over him with dark, worried eyes.

"'bout time you woke up," he grouched.

"How are you? You're the last to wake up."

 _Last to wake..._ The word  _poison_  was floating around his head like an irritating fly. He licked his lips, intending to speak, but startled slightly when a cup was put to his mouth. He drank obediently, trying to get his bearings.

Porthos towered over him, with Athos standing behind. Tréville at the foot of the bed and d'Artagnan on the other side. The faint light of dusk filled the room  _– the infirmary_. What had happened?

"I don't suppose you remember fainting on me," d'Artagnan remarked humourlessly.

"Can't... say that I do." The weakness of his own voice startled him.

"We've been poisoned. The servant at the palace grounds, with the wine from Her Majesty. It was three days ago."

Aramis stared at Athos blankly for several long seconds.

"Her Majesty—"

"Is safe," supplied Captain Tréville, staring at him oddly. Aramis blinked again.

"The queen... wanted us poisoned?"

The question sounded ridiculously absurd even to his own ears, but now, Aramis watched a harried glance pass quickly between his friends. The atmosphere seemed to tense imperceptibly around them -  _what_  was  _happening?_

"Of course not," stated Athos calmly after a moment. "It was someone else. One of His Majesty's guests wanted us out of the way so he could hold a knife to the king's throat in the middle of the banquet. He was shot by Boutin, then subsequently took his own life before he could be questioned."

"And before you ask," d'Artagnan put bitterly, "it  _is_  as ridiculous as that sounds." He sat himself down on the nearby cot.

Now Aramis's head was spinning.

"Captain.."

"Don't worry yourself with it now, Aramis. I  _am_  sorry to report, however, that the man's accomplice, the fake servant who brought you the wine, has vanished. I didn't see his face that day, so only the four of you know what he looks like."

"'an we 'ave no leads," Porthos grumbled, crossing his arms, his anger and dissatisfaction radiating off of him. Aramis looked carefully at each of his friends, and saw the same despondency in their faces - the man who had almost killed them had gotten away.

Right now, he didn't know what to think or feel about any of this.

"The king... is well?" he asked after some hesitation.

"He is," Tréville nodded, "though he was understandably upset. He's expecting to see you four as soon as you are back on your feet."

"For what?" d'Artagnan asked, still surprisingly bitter as he turned dark eyes to the captain, "to reprimand us for getting poisoned?"

Captain Tréville threw him a sharp glare. "My understanding," he underlined, "is that he wants to see you all back on duty as soon as possible. He's asked after you yesterday."

"Why..." Aramis intervened, struggling to keep up, "What did this.. guest.. have against the king? What purpose did poisoning us serve – he had to have known the king would be surrounded by Musketeers anyhow."

"That, is the disturbing part," Tréville said, sighing deeply as he absently craned his neck in the fading light. He looked almost as tired as his recuperating men. "The king is shocked," he stated, "he can't think of any reason why the Baron would want to kill him. Besides, the fact that the man killed himself before he could be interrogated suggests that he wasn't acting alone."

"I doubt the fake servant was the mastermind," Athos put, himself looking frighteningly pale as he, too, sat, on the cot at the other side, and passed a slightly trembling hand over his brow. "We're looking at a group of at least three, possibly more men involved in this plot."

"The security around the palace has been tightened," the captain nodded, "We don't know when they might try again, or in what way. As to why you four have been targeted..." He shook his head.

"It was a test, wasn't it?"

In the vanishing residue of the daylight, they all turned to look at d'Artagnan.

"That's the only answer that makes sense," the Gascon shrugged, "They wanted to test us – the four of us – to see if they could take us out. And they succeeded." His words were all but acrid, dripping with disappointment, anger and self-reprimand. Before anyone could say anything, he rose, threw his doublet over his shoulder and left the infirmary.

"I'll go after 'im." Porthos looked down at Aramis. "Try not to die when I'm outside, yeah?" he grumbled, "I'd prefer if you did that when I'm near." Then, without waiting for a response to his black humour, he hurried after d'Artagnan.

"Rest up, gentlemen," the captain said wearily when he was alone with Aramis and Athos. "This has been a difficult trial for each of us. Lemay has left medicine to be taken after the evening meal; I'll have your dinner sent here."

Athos canted his head in acceptance. With a last look at the pair of them, the captain, too, left, and Aramis himself drifted off to sleep before he even realized that his eyes had closed.

* * *

The next time he woke, it was to a loud bang next to his ear; he startled, a curse and an apology following immediately. It was night time.

"Sorry. It's me." Porthos's just-loud-enough whisper became more audible as he approached, "Think I broke the window."

"Hm..." His thoughts saturated heavily with sleep, Aramis raised a trembling hand to wipe his brow, feeling the humidity in the air.

"Why are you awake?"

Porthos was silent for a few moments as he poured water into a cup. "I couldn' sleep."

He helped Aramis to drink without being asked, and the marksman sipped gratefully. He was feeling ridiculously weak.

"Porthos..." he whispered, glancing at his friend as he settled back, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?" Because the 'yeah' was clearly a no. Bare-feet and in a dishevelled nightshirt, Porthos fidgeted slightly, then crossed his arms once again, this time in clear discomfort - something Aramis wasn't used to seeing in his stalwart friend.

"We were almost killed," Porthos grumbled, staring down at the ground.

How strange that statement sounded coming from Porthos! But Aramis had a vague feeling that he understood what Porthos meant.

"Hardly for the first time," he pointed out half-heartedly.

"No... But every other time, I 'ad a chance to defend myself, you know? To fight back. But this..." He shook his head again.

"We didn't see it coming."

They hadn't. The wine was supposed to have come from the queen. It had been too clever, for it would have raised much suspicion had the man claimed the drink had been ordered by the king; but the queen...

They hadn't seen it coming.

This sense of... vulnerability... was almost too new. It was sobering to be reminded of their mortality like this.

"Sorry I woke you up," said Porthos, clearly wanting to close the subject; he glanced around the room, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "You good to sleep? Need anythin'?"

"I am well, my friend. Thank you. Go back to sleep."

With a nod and a pat on the shoulder, Porthos left him. And with a distinctly uncomfortable feeling settling all over him, Aramis, too tired to dwell on the events of the past few days, fell back into sleep.

* * *

_Into an abyss._

_So_   _bottomless and dark, it was consuming him like a living, breathing creature – it was suffocating – how was he supposed to breathe, to subsist_  – he looked around, staring into the pitch dark until his eyes hurt.  _Porthos?_  They'd talked just two seconds ago – Porthos –

Was he  _awake_?

The mat beneath him – _hard._

The sweat on his brow – wet, sticky.

Aramis pushed himself to a more upright position and forced himself to calm down.

 _Calm._ He was awake. It was only the night.

He lay back down, straining to hear the quiet breathing of Athos and d'Artagnan.

His heart continued to stagger. The throbbing  _absence_  of something gaping there - the teasing remnants of some unknown terror – he could not remember. He must have been dreaming, but he could not remember; he didn't know if he truly wanted to recall the dreams but anxiety coursed through his veins like a venom and he did not know how to be rid of it. He shifted on the pillows. He didn't know what to do.

It was too silent.

Perhaps Porthos was still awake – no snoring could be heard - and so _dark –_  why hadn't a candle been left lit? His eyes roamed around the room. _There - a circle of light! And there... standing in the middle of it was Her, tall and graceful, with the_ _Dauphin_ _in her arms. Aramis smiled, starting towards them, but Anne turned her back, keeping the baby out of sight._

 _Frowning, Aramis quickened his steps,_   _confused at her behaviour_   _, but he suddenly realized that he wasn't moving. No matter how fast or how long he walked, the distance was always the same – he wasn't getting any closer. He tried to call out, but his throat produced no sound. He broke into a run: he'd made a promise and he would keep it – he would keep them safe – but the darkness pressed hard on him from all around, closing on him as if he were a most prized prey and Aramis fought it, fought with all his might-_

"Aramis,  _awake!_ "

The name left his lips before consciousness fully caught up with awareness - "Athos!"

His heart was beating so loudly he could barely hear himself. Athos's eyes, so close, were full of fear and worry.

"You were dreaming," he stated carefully.

But when had Aramis even closed his eyes - was this still the same night?  _Why did the queen keep turning away from him -_ the strange look in the captain's eyes earlier – this  _accursed_  darkness _- was_  this the same night -

"Athos – I'm sorry -"

"It's alright. You're alright."  _His heart still beat so wildly –_  "You're alright, Aramis." A careful squeeze before Athos's grip on his hands loosened, and slowly retreated, although his friend remained close by.

"You're warm. I don't know if you're still fevered - "

_No._

Aramis kept a tight grip on Athos's hand until the whirlwind in his mind quietened down, and his heart fought its way back to settling down. Then, with a grateful pat on Athos's knuckles, he let go.

"I'm alright."

It sounded weak and lame even to his own ears.

"Aramis." The green eyes never leaving Aramis's face, Athos pulled the nearby stool and sat down. "What is it that you fear?"

There was that habitual readiness in him, Aramis observed when he looked over exhaustedly. That preparedness against possible danger - the unspoken communication between two soldiers that had served side by side for years. Athos asked in order to be prepared; expected the answer as a comrade and a lieutenant. Not as the friend Aramis had burdened with a treacherous secret.

Should he answer?

Should he indulge; take advantage of the position he'd put his friend in by continuing to confide in him?

Athos's hand circled around his wrist, warm and comforting, and made the decision for him.

"Nothing," he breathed, leaving his head back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes.  _Dawn_ , he longed for the dawn. Despair was taking roots within him like a real, physical thing. What if he dreamt again?

What if he  _talked_ , spilled this secret while he slept? What if she kept turning away from him _– what if he failed to keep his promise - what if, the next time,_ _poison_ _found its way to -_

Involuntarily, he reached for Athos's hand on his wrist, gripping it tightly.

 _I've already asked too much of you, my friend, but..._ "Will you stay?"

Because all of his defences were gone.

A moment of silence, then Athos settled back, propped his legs up on the bed and made himself comfortable.

"Sleep," he commanded.

And they both slept, and neither of them dreamt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So _was_ it Rochefort behind this weird attempt on the king, and this testing of the Musketeers? Your guess is as good as mine.
> 
> I hope this wasn’t unsatisfactory.


	8. Bedridden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Whumptober" series of pure self-indulgence continues. This takes place around Episodes 2-3 of the second series.

* * *

When they found him, he was slumped in a corner, and his eyes were glazed. Relief shot through d'Artagnan as he clipped his pistol on his belt and ran to his friend. Porthos and Aramis were at his back, wielding the torches.

"Athos."

There was no reaction. d'Artagnan's hand fell on his friend's shoulder as he crouched down, but Athos seemed unaware. In the approaching light, sweat glistened on his face, and a hint of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

A questioning glance shot to Aramis, and d'Artagnan scooted aside to make room. Porthos took the second torch as well, remaining upright to provide the light.

"Athos, my friend."

Nothing.

He appeared unharmed.

Yet, as Aramis looked closer at him, he found Athos tightly strung, unnaturally tense.

"What is it - what's wrong with him?"

"You smell that?" asked Porthos, frowning deeply. A horrible sense of foreboding made d'Artagnan back away a bit from Athos, as if it were a physical force. 

Shaking his head, Aramis eased himself to his knees, placed two very careful hands on Athos's shoulders and gathered the unresisting man towards himself, peering down at his back.

He flinched, and would have crossed himself if his arms weren't full. d'Artagnan dove in to look at what Aramis had found.

He saw nothing at first, in the wavering dark between Athos and the wall.

 _Weavering._  Upon closer scrutiny, the leather of the uniform seemed bunched up, crinkled, sticking across Athos's back.

Then the smell hit him.  _Burned leather._  Burnedflesh.

His hand flew to his mouth as he fell back, horrified. Aramis's hand moved up to cradle the back of Athos's head, holding the man to himself in a firm, yet infinitely gentle embrace.

"Let's get him out of here," he said tightly, glancing up at Porthos.

For Athos, found and safe now in their company, was in agony.

* * *

"Can you hear me?" Aramis whispered later, when he was at the back of the cart with Athos's head resting on his lap. They'd laid him on his side, cushioned him with bales of hay and hadn't touched his uniform. One hand tenderly on his friend's head, Aramis could see that Athos's eyes were still open, unseeing.

"If you can, Athos... We'll fix this,  _mon_ _cher_. Just hold on."

He was already mentally flipping through his past experiences with burns, encountered mostly after explosions and shell blasts on the battleground. He'd seen his fair share of them. He'd tended some of them. He knew - and dreaded - what he would find beneath the scorched uniform.

But he would have to remove the leather and the shirt from the flesh first, and the echoes of the screams of men from his memories rose unbidden in his ears, and he closed his eyes and his hold on Athos's shoulder tightened.

_Hold on. I'll fix this._

* * *

His eyes had fallen close when they manoeuvred him onto a stretcher and carried him to the infirmary. But he was still conscious, for he remained terribly tense. As they laid him down on his front on a long table layered with blankets, Porthos observed how quickly and shallowly his friend was breathing.

Lemay had been dispatched to, but he'd be found out of town.

"We're here, eh? We got you to the infirmary. Aramis is gonna take care o' you. Hold on." Thus said Porthos as he leaned over to eye-level with his friend, cupping a clammy cheek with a tentative hand.

Aramis wrapped an apron around his waist and approached, d'Artagnan carrying a basin of water to place it on another table nearby.

"The scissors."

Aramis's reluctance and determination, two distinct, yet equally strong emotions, were almost palpable.

Carefully, he cut the doublet around the large area that had melted and stuck to the skin. Then, with the help of d'Artagnan and Porthos, they removed the remains of the garment from Athos's back. Beneath the shirt that was not damaged, they found deep bruises across his shoulders, and down the back of his arms.

As they laid him back down on his front, they saw the tears of pain trickling down his face.

When he remained only in his braies and the dark material across his back like an ugly tattoo pressed into his skin, the three friends stood silently, staring at him for a moment.

"What do we do now?"

"The solution," murmured Aramis wearily.

d'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a confused look.

"Yes, and what's that?"

"The solution," Aramis shook his head, “a mixture that will help remove the foreign material from his skin. Stay with him," he told the others unnecessarily as he went over to the medical cabinet in the corner to prepare it.

When he was ready, he crouched by Athos’s ear before he began.

"I don't know if you can hear me... But you need to be resilient now, my friend. This is going to hurt. I must clean your back before we start treating it."  _I know you're already in agony and perhaps this is going to hurt even more, or perhaps, you're already in so much pain that you won't notice this._  Either way, he couldn't make the pain go away - not yet. "Brace yourself." He brushed a hand against his friend's shoulder before shifting to take his stance.

He took a deep breath - careful to avoid looking at either Porthos or D'Artagnan – and began to gently apply the thick, greenish concoction onto the worst of the burns. Athos whimpered, and was immediately shushed by Porthos and d’Artagnan. Aramis was quick and light-handed about it. He knew for a fact that the solution soothed the pain to some degree, and did not agitate it. It was the merest sensation of  _touch_  that ignited the figurative fire.

It was the next part that he truly dreaded.

He closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer  **-** _Blessed be the Lord my God, who teaches my hands to fight, and my fingers to battle._  He opened his eyes, and lowered the tip of the forceps into the wound.

Then the screaming began.

* * *

They sat with him through the first night, speaking quietly to him, trying to distract him from his agony. They fed him wine, wiped the sweat from his brow, and held his hand, but Athos remained unaware, locked inside a world that consisted of pain, pain, pain and nothing else. Around dawn, when he had been quiet for some time, they manoeuvred him onto his side, so that Porthos could wipe his chest down, for he was getting very warm. "Fever?" d'Artagnan had inquired warily. Aramis had shaken his head. Fever he feared, for burns of this kind got infected too easily, but for now, he suspected it was only the effort Athos's body spent to withstand the pain.

"We're here," he murmured quietly as he took his seat at Athos's side once again, leaning over to push the hair back from his friend's eyes. "We're here,  _mon_ _cher_ _._  Try to relax."

But the sun brought no hope, and no relief for Athos.

The three friends took turns in the morning to refresh themselves and grab a bite for breakfast. Captain Tréville dropped by before the morning muster and after being briefed by Aramis on the condition of the swordsman, he, too, stood for a few long moments over his lieutenant's bed, one hand placed tenderly on Athos's head as if in benediction, in a sentiment that seemed almost fatherly. Then, without another word, and with nods to each of his three men that conveyed his implicit permission to remain taking care of their fourth, he left to attend the business of running the regiment.

Now they only wished that Athos could sleep.

They wished he could find some rest.

But it wasn't to be - not for some time.

* * *

Around noon, he began to get agitated once more.

His eyes flew open and his breath quickened, coming in harsh pants. He almost rolled onto his back before, with cries of surprise and prevention Aramis and d'Artagnan both rushed to stop him, leaving him staring beggingly at Porthos, as if hoping for him to rescue him from this agony. It made Porthos almost cry.

"No, no, you can't lie on your back, your back's damaged, remember? What am I sayin',” he mumbled, “'course you remember, how can you forget-"  _What_  was he sayin'; why was he even speaking? - he felt like an idiot and dutifully avoided Athos's eyes even as he gripped his friend's hand, feeling utterly, stupidly useless.  _Useless._

Under their carefully restraining hands Athos groaned, and moaned, and wept, but never spoke.

"Give 'im somethin' to make 'im sleep, Aramis, won't you?"

"I will. I will," Aramis relented easily, getting to his feet quickly and rushing to the cabinet. "We must make him eat a little first - d'Artagnan-" But the Gascon was already at the door before Aramis had finished speaking.

It was a struggle to calm him and get him to swallow the stew while he lay on his side, and Aramis had to contend with a few spoonfuls instead of the entire bowl. But he didn't mind. He perched on the edge of the bed and held Athos's head up to get him to swallow the pain draught. He'd feared using this before, for it was potent, and he'd hoped the milder medicine he'd given him would work, and Athos would find sleep through his fatigue alone. It was not to be. At the moment, Aramis was only relieved that he could yet do something to help his friend, while he simultaneously feared - _really_  feared- that this, too, might not be enough.

But it turned out to be enough, for after about ten minutes, the struggle began to die down. Athos began to relax, and finally, utterly exhausted, succumbed to sleep.

They all breathed sighs of relief. Porthos had to step out for a while to get himself sorted, and d'Artagnan and Aramis found solace in each other as they sat watching Athos with heavy hearts.

They would see their friend through this. 

Of that there was no doubt.

* * *

"Is it... do you think I can see him?"

It was the next day, and d'Artagnan had found Constance standing at the garrison gate, mildly wringing her hands in a rare display of nerves, having been sent by the queen to inquire after Athos's health. She looked almost beggingly d'Artagnan, the weight and the seriousness of their subject having pushed aside the lingering awkwardness between the two.

Hands on his hips, d'Artagnan frowned as he regarded her beautiful, anxious blue eyes. If this weren't the garrison - if Athos were in his own rooms - he wouldn't hesitate, for Constance was.... Constance. But here in the garrison, even though she was well-known to most of the men, the impertinence of Madame Bonacieux's visit to an ill, bed-ridden man within the barracks rooms, would be difficult to ignore.

 _He_  wouldn't care- he  _didn't_. But Athos, the man made of honour,  _would_ , in Constance's name; and Constance, just last week, had made it perfectly clear that  _she_  certainly cared. Reputation before love; conformity before happiness - she'd made her choices clear. His disappointment in her was still scorching.

"I know it's... silly of me to ask," said Constance, bringing him back, waving a hand in the air and trying to smile, "it's just... I'd have really liked to see him."

"Come in the evening," said d'Artagnan, dropping his hands from their perch.

"What?"

"Come after dark. I'll get you in- most of the men won't be around. The Musketeers are men of honour, Constance. They won't start gossip - especially not about Athos. They have too much respect for him for that." Perhaps Athos would protest, but he'd have little say in the matter after the deed was done.

"Well, that's clever and all," said Constance with the beginning of a smile, "but wouldn't Athos be asleep?"

"Does it matter?" d'Artagnan countered, shrugging, "You said you wanted to see him. He's not much in the mood for conversation, anyway," he sighed.

"To be fair, he rarely is," Constance remarked, the playful smile making a stronger effort to break through. d'Artagnan, despite himself, chuckled slightly.

"Just.... tell him I'm thinking of him, will you? And I'll come. I'll come visit another day,  _in daylight_ , when he's feeling better."

Respectful, if with a touch of lingering bitterness, of her decision, d'Artagnan acquiesced with a nod.

"Good day, Constance."

"Good day, d'Artagnan."

He stood watching until she rounded the corner and disappeared in the afternoon crowd.

* * *

"Aramis."

"Athos?"

Late in the evening, Aramis, alone in the infirmary with Athos, rushed towards the bedside, sinking down to his friend's eye-level. Athos was flushed, the fever that had spiked still haven't had died down. "Water?" he guessed.

A weak nod of the head.

Aramis helped him - a troublesome task as Athos remained lying on his front with his head turned to the side, a position that made it difficult to properly raise his head to partake of drink. And inevitably, some of the water spilled down onto the pillow.

Athos screwed his eyes shut. Aramis reached for a towel to wipe the moisture from the pillow and his friend's mouth, but Athos's hand rose unexpectedly, and grabbed Aramis's wrist to stop him with surprising strength. Frowning, Aramis looked down.

Athos was glaring at him, a burning, bright glare from the eyes of a man who breathed in shallow pants and grimaced from relentless, prolonged pain.

He needed  _sustenance._  He would not stand to be coddled. Indeed, the look in Athos's eyes was not one for the faint-hearted.

It did not work on Aramis.

"Let me help," the marksman said quietly instead, holding Athos's gaze. No judgement, no fussing, no pity - only a masterful evenness of tone that made it impossible to raise an argument against. He said nothing more; only waited.

Several moments passed, then, either out of acceptance **,**  or because he lacked the strength to maintain that hold, Athos's hand loosened its grip, and his eyes fell close.

Aramis was careful to keep his peace as he rose, and silently returned to his seat to continue his vigil.

* * *

"Porthos."

"Yea?"

Athos hesitated, a struggle passing through him, then he lowered his eyes.

"Will you help me turn on my side?"

"Which side?" asked Porthos, rising.

"Left."

The mission accomplished, Porthos looked over him assessingly. "Better?"

"Better," Athos nodded, "Thank you." The words were clipped; him, closed off - the Comte de la Fére. Porthos just laughed.

"You're welcome. Drink?"

The look he received this time was mild, relenting, perhaps even apologetic.

Porthos only grinned, and went to pour the wine.

* * *

 "How's the pain?"

"More.... manageable," Athos replied through gritted teeth. He'd sat up on the bed and d'Artagnan was helping him to change into a clean shirt.

"You mean it hurts like hell," d'Artagnan muttered before picking up the shirtsleeve. "Can you raise your arm a bit or - no, it's alright - I'll just - " The exercise left Athos panting, hunched over and supported by d'Artagnan on the bed, his eyes screwed shut. Moving his arms, trying to turn himself on the bed, anything that put a strain on his arms and back were sheer agony.

"Breathe," d'Artagnan reminded him quietly, "Breathe, Athos."

He waited until his friend gathered himself, and when he received a soft touch on his arm to indicate he was ready, he helped Athos to carefully turn and lie back down on his side.

He hated seeing Athos like this. He hated seeing him in this much pain, though, as was his wont, Athos bore it all stoically. But d'Artagnan longed to see his friend back to his own self, healthy and up on his feet.

Wordlessly, and perhaps a bit dejectedly, he dunked a cloth into a full basin, wrung it out and ran it gently over Athos's face. Breathing very carefully, Athos turned his head slightly to lean into the touch.

In a few minutes, he was once again asleep.

* * *

It took nearly two weeks for the agony to recede to truly manageable levels, and Athos began to remain sitting up more, although even that was a bit of a struggle. The bruises across his back and arms, the source of a deep, heavy ache that was a steady undercurrent to the pain of his burns, began to fade, and as long as he was careful to not twist his torso, he could push himself up and shift on the bed. When he wanted to sit, they helped him out of the bed and into a chair that he straddled, leaning forward over the hard back. It was still more days before he could lean his back against some very soft cushions -he'd been surprised, suspicious, and terribly appreciative of them by turns-, or lie on it like a normal person again. He did not tell Aramis of the new aches he'd acquired in his neck and shoulders from constantly having to lie on his sides.

Constance came on the day he'd took his sword in his hand for the first time since that fateful day, when he was alone in the infirmary, and tried, carefully, to stretch his arm, testing himself. The pain nearly drove him to his knees and he all but dropped the sword; Porthos, having escorted Constance to the infirmary, found him on the floor by the bed, trying to get back to his feet. Though his first instinct was to run in to help, Porthos checked himself, and instead, remained careful to try and block Constance's view from the door until Athos rose.

Then he cleared his throat, and received a glare for his effort.

"You got a visitor," he announced only, and with a sympathetic glance at Madame Bonacieux, withdrew.

"Constance."

She smiled brightly, but with a hint of hesitation in her step as she walked in through the door. Athos seemed surprised to see her.

"Oh, don't tell me d'Artagnan forgot to mention I would visit!" Her eyes widened in exasperation and disbelief.

Athos blinked. Perhaps d'Artagnan indeed had mentioned such a thing, though he did not recall. He shook his head.

"Well. It's... good to see you on your feet," said Constance somewhat awkwardly, clutching a small basket in her hand, glancing from side to side. Athos was still standing next to the bed, sword in one hand, circles under his eyes and a crease upon his brow. He was staring as though he couldn't fathom why she was here, but his glance must be particularly intense, for Constance, for a moment, faltered.

"I'll just - I'll leave this here - I'd wanted to see how you were doing, you know, it's been a while and-"

"Constance." He stopped her quietly, and when she looked up, his expression had softened, and morphed into one of kindness - the face that she always associated with Athos, for it was with this face of his that she had first met, over three years ago. Relieved, she smiled.

"It's kind of you to come. Sit." He showed her to the only chair in the room and she took it pleasantly, waiting for him to sit as well. But Athos remained where he was, though, this time,  _he_  seemed awkward, remaining on his feet while she sat.

He glanced at the half-made bed. Constance trailed his eyes.

"Won't you sit?" she inquired, raising pretty eyebrows. Athos seemed hesitant. Constance rolled her eyes and grinned a bit. "Come on, it's hardly proper for you to stand like that when I'm sat. Sit down." She gestured towards the bed with her head. A smile of his own twitching his lips, Athos relented; left the sword leaning against the wall, carefully folded one leg under him and sat, settling against the pillows. Satisfied, Constance peered at him intently.

"You look well."

Athos raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"For a man who's been abed for over two weeks you really  _do_  look well," said Constance solemnly. "I'm glad, Athos. We've been.. frightened. The queen and I."

"Thank you," Athos returned, before Constance giggled unexpectedly, almost girlishly, and clapped a hand to her mouth.

" _The queen and I_  - I can't believe I just said that. It's been over two months since I moved to the palace but it's still so...  _weird._ "

"She could not have found a better companion, Madame," returned Athos, smile solidifying as he looked at her, "d'Artagnan has done Her Majesty a great service by recommending you to her."

Constance actually blushed.

Athos always had this effect on her. His approval fluttered her heart, warmed her to her core - ever since they'd first met, he'd always reminded him of Pascal, her eldest brother, who, some years ago, had passed. Athos looked nothing like Pascal: he had been very tall, and very lean, with dark hair and the same blue eyes with Constance that they had taken from their father. Pascal was a lively man who loved a good brawl, a good laugh, a good life, and got in and out of trouble with terrifying skill. He would have made a terrific Musketeer. And he was kind. He was always so, so kind and Constance still ached when she thought of her brother.

This look in Athos's eyes - and nothing else about him - reminded him of Pascal, and Constance loved it.

But then, around those eyes she noticed how pale Athos was, how there seemed to be darker shades in the shallows of his face since she'd last seen him, and some invisible muscle drawn tight on his brow by an underlying pain, and decided quickly that she should leave him to rest.

Even if they'd shared merely a few sentences since sitting down.

"Well, I better get going," she said, rising, before quickly warning him, " _don't_  get up, Athos; I'm no duchess and you're no  _comte_  - well, not anymore, from what I gather. I brought pastries," she grinned, indicating the basket she'd left on the table, covered with a cloth, "Apple pies. Just don't let d'Artagnan and Porthos get to them - I already left a basket for them. This is yours alone. Honestly, sometimes I imagine those two finding their way into the queen's kitchens and... well, let's hope that never happens." She grinned again, and found Athos smiling broadly, eyes twinkling in amusement at her prattling on.

"Feel better," she said softly.

"Thank you, Madame," returned Athos.

She left with a light step, and left him with a warmer heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Athos has some serious second-degree burns, for he'd be beyond pain if they were any worse, but beside that, whether there's any medical inconsistency in there, I remain unaware. Kindly ignore them if you find any - I take refuge in fanfiction to escape from research at most times, not to do more of it. ;)  
> EDIT: I'm laughing at myself. I'm not a native speaker of English, so some words get mixed up very easily in my brain, and I'm awful at editing. I just realized that I'd written Athos "required" new aches in his back and arms, instead of having "acquired" them. The poor man!  
> EDIT TWO: Thanks to Greenlips for the heads-up on the "okay"s. Chalk it up to my brain having turned to mush this week, please? They're fixed now. Thank you. ;)


	9. Friendly Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of another two- or three-parter.
> 
> (I'm unable to be more frequent with my writing at this time, but I'll keep trying to post a new chapter every week. My thanks to everyone who's reading, commenting and leaving kudos. It's lovely to know you enjoy reading these things.)

* * *

Pain.

Blinding, sickening pain - a wave of nausea pushing over him, his own groan in his ears and his heartbeat a thunder in his chest-  _clap-clap-clap._ The feel of wet, cold dirt on his cheek; a roar, far away and muffled -

"Aramis!"

He couldn't help it. As he was wrenched upright by the shoulders, he had no time nor opportunity to reclaim his wits - he vomited.

On all fours and the support gone, he blinked and blinked to get his bearings, to clear the silver sparks and force his vision to settle. Movement to his right - a blurred shape that could only be Athos - grabbing the musket that had fallen from his hand, rolling over and sinking to his knees in one fluid motion to take aim. Comprehension, however, was slow; his mind lagged behind in catching up - a dead body a few feet to his left, another one further away - a growl of frustration from Athos made him turn, but he regretted it immediately as the pain and nausea flared again.

"I can't see. I can't make him out..." Athos murmured, one eye closed in thick concentration as he leaned over the barrel. The situation down in the courtyard had clearly gotten out of hand - this cursed, steady sheet of rain wasn't helping his vision - D'artagnan, alone and unarmed in the prison yard among a crowd of violent offenders - Porthos, down on the ground, wouldn't get to him in time. They were too far away - Athos didn't have Aramis's eyes – Guerin, their initial target, was towering over d'Artagnan who was on the ground, surrounded by a human wall of jeering, laughing, screeching men. They'd run out of time. Even as his breath hitched and his finger tightened spasmodically around the trigger, Athos knew that he couldn't take the shot.

He stole a desperate glance at Aramis -  _he_  was supposed to make this shot!- his look was one of plea, though it went lost in the daze that Aramis couldn't sake off - but Athos's eyes suddenly widened as his gaze shifted and he dropped the musket to leap to his feet, drawing his sword in a flash and that's when Aramis realized that something  _else_  was wrong.

"What--"

Something  _slammed_  into him from behind, sending him sprawling back to the leaf-littered ground. Like he was a mere obstacle in the way he was pushed aside, a massive shape stepping  _over_  him - another roar was heard, crude and belligerent- he looked up just in time to see a mountain of a man bearing down on Athos, his friend stumbling back even as he swung his blade in the last moment to block a brutal strike. Throat burning, head pulsing, stomach churning Aramis fumbled around for his dagger -  _clap-clap-clap_  – _his heart or the thunders rolling overhead?_ -  _merde!_  his hands weren't co-operating - he couldn't  _reach_  the dagger let alone draw it! -  _sit upright -_   _sit upright first -_

" _Aramis!_ "

Imploring - desperate - Athos brought his sword to up block another blow, his arm shaking from the force it even as he kept backing away, staggering - "Take the shot! Take the shot - d'Artagnan-" His back hit the trunk of a tree and his words were cut as he ducked and dove low to avoid another zealous thrust.

_Take the shot!_

Nausea be damned - Aramis grabbed the musket and fell into position again, drawing a furiously shaking hand against his eyes to clear the moisture of blood and rain combined.  _Take the shot -_ it was chaos down in the courtyard - that was just about all his crazy vision could discern.

_Breathe._

Breathe.

 _Block out all voice, all pain, to concentrate on stilling the hands and the vision_. No sound reached them where they were, but Aramis could just  _hear_  the cacophony in his mind: the anger brewing, simmering, boiling as what had started out as a single fight flowed and rushed like a river and took a mad turn to become a full-blown riot. He could distinguish  _men_  from groups now. Chaos as the guards rushed in and weapons were drawn, confusion and violence erupting all around -  _d'Artagnan_ \- he needed to find d'Artagnan.

A desperate sound from Athos almost distracted him but he refused to be diverted. He swallowed against his dry mouth as he carefully,  _painfully_  scanned the crowd.  _There!_   - there the Gascon was - tall and skinny and dark hair! –  _but.._  Aramis swallowed again, blinking furiously - there was no margin of error here -  _was_  that d'Artagnan?

His vision still shifted, gyrating around the edges in a maddening dance -  _take the shot!_  -  _how?_  -  _nothing_  about him was steady -

Another sharp cry from Athos - a body hitting the ground and a growl - Aramis  _refused_  the distraction, again - down below,  _there! -_  another man that could  _just_  be d'Artagnan - tall and skinny and dark hair and in trouble -

"Aramis -"  _Quiet -_

"Aramis, take the - "  _Strangled and pained-_

Aramis took the shot.


	10. Serious illness - I

He could remember precisely the last time he had begged.

He'd begged God to wake up from what he'd hoped was a nightmare.

He'd been refused.

Now he is begging again, years and a different life later, in blissful forgetfulness of the time he'd been denied, because begging feels like the only course of action that is left. Begging, begging unconsciously, begging silently, begging relentlessly,  _please, please,_  one more breath -  _please_ , let me -

"Easy - easy, come 'ere. Come 'ere. Rest 'ere now. Rest a bit like this, there you go.."

 _Please.._   _please_  -

"There.. there, stay like that.. Don' move, hm?"

The rumble and the rubbing hand on his back. One breath, easier, a second breath.. easier..

"Good. Good."

He shivered, pressing his forehead harder against Porthos's shoulder.

A breath cut short on Porthos's own chest as Aramis beat him to pulling the blanket up over Athos's hunched back. Freezing - he was freezing and he'd folded his arms around himself and sweat and tears had long mixed together and he pressed his face against Porthos's solid chest once more, seeking, searching, scared beyond reason and age and experience and anything else that this fragile balance, this delicate moment of reprieve will be gone, and he'll be tossed right back into the storm, helpless as a ragdoll between the jaws of a rabid dog.

He shivered again, violently, and Porthos's arms tightened around him.

He moaned, low and long.

A cough.

A trigger.

_Here it comes again._

"No- don't tense up now - you're doin' good, real good, brother.. Easy now -"

"Porth-"

No breath.

No breath-

_Porth--!_

Let this end.

_Please-_

_Please, God, let this end._

/

"Is this it? Is there really nothing else to be done?"

" ... "

"You cannot possibly be telling me that we'll just sit here and watch until he - until he dies!"

"d'Artagnan-"

"There has to be something! There has to be something to help him - if nothing else, to - to ease this! To ease-"

\- his suffering.

_Suffering?_

His  _passing._

Athos is dying.

He'd been dying before their very eyes for the last two weeks.

He is dying.

There's nothing to be done?

No.

_No._

_All that can be done has and is being done._

There is nothing else.

/

"Give him the laudanum."

"I don't dare -"

"Give it to him. Give it to him."

"You don't understand. It will -"

"It will help. It will give him relief. It will give him some reprieve from this - please, Aramis -"

"Don't you  _dare_  beg me!  _Don't_ you dare. Is this for him or for us, hm? Who do you really want this for, did you ever stop to think?"

"Aramis -"

"I may as well speed this up. I may as well contribute to my friend's death - is this really what you want?"

"No. No, I'm sorry -"

"Don't you  _dare_  force me. There are things beyond forgiving on this earth, d'Artagnan.  _Don't_  you force my hand."

/

_"We're still 'ere."_

_"We all are."_

He knows.

He still feels the touch of their hands.

Feels them on his forehead, pushing his hair back, feeling his fever, with never-diminishing hope.

Feels them on his face, holding his head so he can try to sip whatever they give him.

On his body, holding him, holding him this way and that way as he twists and jerks and arches with each relentless, cruel bout; holding him and trying to find which way to keep him that will give him a moment of relief, one easier breath, one full draw of air through the closed, infected throat, down into the drowning, starved lungs. A single inhalation has become the highest mountain to climb. A single whiff of freely taken air - they take it as one when Athos is granted one, and they hold all of their own for the rest of the time.

All for one.

/

Athos is all but gone.

d'Artagnan... all but gone.

Is he the one that is feeling dead inside or is this the death that has been stalking the corners of this room for the past three weeks, sneaking its way steadily into the young Musketeer's soul, sinking its claws, taking tasting bites, settling down for that unfathomable cavity that will be left behind once Athos is truly gone?

He is watching, silent and alone from a corner of the room. A rare moment of being left alone.

Cold.

He is cold, cold from the very core of his soul, stiff and tired and empty in a way he recalls from a time long ago. This feeling of standing upon a brink, of something he does not know. There will be a break between the before and the after and things will, soon, never be the same as they are now. He'd only been fourteen when he'd first felt this. Fourteen when he'd crouched in the corner of his parents' bedroom and watched his mother die. This is not how the death of his father had felt like.

That had been different.

This, too, is different.

 _Maman_  -

Snapping his eyes close, he draws two fingers onto them to rub away the images - the image of her mother on that last day, her sunken cheeks, her long, disarrayed hair, her chapped, quivering lips. He shakes his head, angry at the unexpected rise of these memories - he doesn't want to see this. Like uttering a curse he drops his hand and looks up.

Athos.

Athos, dying.

 _Maman_  had been a brunette. Beautiful, tanned skin; she'd wear her raven hair in long braids, and strands would escape and she would swipe them back with her forearm while she'd knead the dough. The white of the flour and the black of her hair would make a bright, mischievous pair and in d'Artagnan's young, eager mind, the two had subconsciously come to symbolize siblings. Siblings like the older sister he could barely remember but for a laughter of delight in his ears, or the baby that soon would have come, the one to whom he would have been the best big brother.  _Flour on maman's jaw_. The strand of hair curling behind her ear and the glint in her eye as she'd laughed and told him to go fetch his father - she'd gotten so big she couldn't get up from the ground without help. He'd smirk, noticing how  _maman_  would want  _father's_  help now, not his.

_Athos.._

What are these memories now - why is he recalling  _maman_  now?

He's walked to the bed somehow and taken hold of both of Athos's arms. The wrists in his grasp are so thin, they require special care to not accidentally snap. "Here, lean on me," he says, pulling the struggling man half-awkwardly to his lap. The words are a formality. Holding Athos this way or that way makes not the slightest difference to him now; d'Artagnan swallows hard, very hard, to push down the waves of anger rising even as he holds Athos up, the due gentleness all gone.  _Why is this happening?_

 _Why_  has this happened; why is he forced to just  _be_  here, to watch, utterly unable to help? This inability to act is like a living creature sneaking its way through his insides, searing him and branding him-  _why,_ why has this happened,  _why?_ Weeping bitterly he sniffs and twists the man in his arms none-too-gently in an effort to get him to look up.  _Athos -_ he needs to see Athos. Where is he?  _This_  isn't him - this wasted body he's holding, this sack of bones wrapped in sickly-translucent skin; no, he needs to  _see_  Athos, to make sure he's still here, to ask him to come _back_   - "Athos. Athos,  _where_   _are you_ ," he whispers, pleadingly, desperately, shaking the sick man as though he's deliberately hiding Athos, "Athos-"

"D'Artagnan?"

He looks up, finds Aramis's inquiring gaze too close and only then realizes that he's holding Athos in a way that cannot possibly be restful for the ailing man. The green eyes are blown wild, utterly confused, terrified. Horrified, d'Artagnan abruptly lets go. He rises, only to have Porthos quickly take over, and leaves the room, without looking back. 


	11. Serious Illness - II

Is it prayers answered?

Is it divine pity, bestowed upon an unchanging scene of collective misery?

Or is it forgiveness?

The tide takes its time to turn, so long, so very long, none of them will be able to recall a point where breathing has become easier again, either for Athos, or for them all. All they'll be able to say is that Athos did not die after all.

They didn't discover a new remedy that helped ease his cough.

They didn't recite new prayers that the Lord has never heard before.

They sat, and waited, and Athos did not die.

And that was all. 

/

"Here, just a couple more. It's nearly finished."

"What have you done?"

Porthos's brow creased as he retreated the cup from Athos's lips and looked at him in puzzlement. Perhaps he'd caught the breathy whispers wrong.

"What... have you done?"

"I don' understand. What do you mean what have I done?"

"Was it... Aramis?" An indignant cough kicked hard at the precious breath he'd found.

"Easy - don't tire yourself out, eh? There'll be time to talk."

"I want.. to know."

The fever wasn't any worse. In fact, Athos was only a bit warm; Porthos wouldn't even say he was fevered anymore. Confusion, however, seemed to linger; out of habit, he reached aside to wring out a cloth and put it to Athos's forehead. He was too used to the action now, to the sensation, to the effect - and its lack there-of. He watched closely as the green eyes, seeming twice their natural size within the shrunken, wilted face, moved restlessly from side to side. He grabbed Athos's fingers to get his attention and leaned in close.

"What is it, brother? What is it that you wanna know?"

"Who saved me."

"Who saved you? We..."

Who had saved him?

Porthos shook his head.

"God spared you, Athos. Thank God, He spared you to us."

"Why would he?"

"I don' know, brother. I don' know, but I'm grateful He did. I'm grateful."

"Why would he..."

"Ssh.. don' worry 'bout it now.. There'll be time later, when you're better. Rest."

"Rest..."

"Aye. It's easier now, hm? Easier than before? You're better now."

"Hmm-" Affirmation turned into a moan, the face hidden behind a thin arm in a re-discovered attempt at self-preservation, and Porthos sighed, letting go of Athos - just letting go.

He'd been spared.

He would stay.

_He would stay._

Porthos could now let his brother's hands go.

/

The sharp cry from the bed did not elicit the sudden response from Aramis as it would have done just a week ago. They had gotten used to them - all of them had gotten used to them.

Still, he halted at the door, one hand on the handle, to look over his shoulder at Athos's twisted form, face caught in a grimace, breath arrested in the grip of pain, hands fisted around the sheets as he fought to regain control. Frowning, Aramis walked to him and reached out to help him lie back down.

_Easy. Slow breaths._

He would have uttered these words, except he knew they would spark unnecessary ire. Biting his lip, he reached for his friend's shoulders to -

Athos lashed at him with a growl, only for it to be cut short when his elbow buckled beneath him and he fell, awkwardly, flat on his face on the mattress.

Aramis took a deliberate step back, almost reverently, allowing him space.

Athos groaned.

Groaned and swallowed over and over, and Aramis averted his gaze so he could pretend not to have seen the frustrated tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

He had pulled muscles in his abdomen from weeks of violent coughing. He needed several pillows beneath his head so he could hope to be granted some ease from the incessant bouts. He ached. His entire body ached without a moment's pause and comfort became a distant dream; comfort, lack of pain, the state of being he'd thought was granted to all. He longed for it and he cursed all who had it when he could not - life - what right did  _life_  had to go on when he was laid aside--

_How strange._

How  _so_ very _strange_ to observe, to witness in himself this unfamiliar, this utterly foreign will to survive, to live, to continue being a part of life.

Childish.

His frustration, his anger, his unjust reactions ever since that indeterminable point where he'd begun to feel better - if only he had the energy, he'd be fascinated.

"Drink the cinquefoil when you can. It helps."

Retreating footsteps, and he was left alone again.

/

Afterwards, they began to come less and less. Athos appreciated it as much as he'd appreciated their constant presence during the past few weeks; somehow, at some point, their very state of being - the straight lines of Porthos's posture when he'd sit on that low stool, the spring in d'Artagnan's step as he'd move about the room, the deliberate control, that calculated cool of Aramis's demeanour - they had all begun to rub on his nerves. He did not want to be unjust to them. They only deserved much more than he could ever give in gratitude.

They welcomed him with beaming smiles and gentle embraces when he finally fostered the strength one morning to don his uniform and walk from his rooms in  _Rue Férou_  to the garrison in  _Vieux-Colombier_. He'd been winded; he'd slowed his walk with each step that brought him closer to the arched gate in an attempt to catch his breath and not appear as weak and shaky as he felt. He'd managed it. When he walked in through the courtyard after an entire month's absence, he was several shades too pale and one too many sizes down, but Musketeers leapt to their feet and ran to greet him from all around, taking turns in shaking his hand, patting him on the back, inquiring after his health, eager to fill him in on all that had transpired since he'd been laid down. 

"Oi - enough," Porthos growled, stepping deliberately beside Athos to prevent yet another well-wisher from harassing him, "'e's not goin' anywhere. Let 'im breathe, alrigh'?" 

 _Let him breathe._  

The phrase caught him by surprise. Without knowing what he was doing, he closed his eyes, and drew a large inhale. 

It ended on a slight hitch, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered such a short while ago. 

"Alrigh'?" 

He opened his eyes and nodded, finding himself suddenly unable to meet Porthos's concern. His throat closed. He sneaked his hand over Porthos's wrist and squeezed, helpless to prevent the impertinent rush of wetness to his eyes; Porthos pulled him by the scruff of his neck and held him, tight, for a few long seconds, just until his edges stopped quivering and he felt grounded again.

d'Artagnan and Aramis were grinning like idiots.

Athos gave Porthos a light shove, rolling his eyes, then gruffly reached to fist a hand around the leather of d'Artagnan's uniform and pulled the boy to himself, only to hold him close for a moment and plant a kiss to the side of his head.

The very picture of composure he was again; Athos, as he always was. Stoic in expression, economical in movement - except, this time, for the emotion he deliberately displayed. The emotion he  _tried_  to relay, only for the eyes and the hearts of these three men, even as he knew he could never fully express-

\- but somehow, miraculously, they seemed to understand, and it seemed to be enough. 

He let go of d'Artagnan and looked into Aramis's eyes. 

"Thank you," he said quietly, brimming with gratitude, and much love.

Words mattered to Aramis. 

And he mattered to Athos.

The marksman spoke equally gravely. "You're welcome."

"If you gentlemen are all quite done."

Laughter as the lingering crowd parted and Captain Tréville surged forward, eyes sparkling, one hand reached out. "Athos."

"Captain." He grasped the offered hand and Tréville shook it firmly.

"It's good to have you back."

A pat on the arm, a sharp, searching look from top to toe; a curl of the lips that indicated very clearly what he thought of what he'd seen, then, with a twirl on his heel and a voice that echoed all the way to the rooftops, he barked: "Right! Mount-up was five minutes ago! What are you waiting for - personal invitations? To your posts - _now!_ "

Big grins and rolling eyes and salutations to the four Inseperables as Musketeers departed to do as they were told.

_Life._

It had all the right to go on without Athos. But for the first time in years,  _he_  felt that  _he_  did not want to be without it.

He sat on their bench in the shade, perfectly content, and spent the morning watching his brothers spar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were several other avenues to be explored in this vein but I didn't want to drag it. A related 'snack' sometime soon, perhaps. Thanks for reading!


End file.
